


Delicate in Every Way But One

by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun dies every night in order to let the moon live, and again, and again, and again: A story about love letters and finding your soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate in Every Way But One

**Author's Note:**

> Basically the Wyatts and the Shield tagged together on RAW like months ago and then this happened. A gem from the conversation that spawned this fic: "Bray stands outside Dean's window with a boombox blaring the soundtrack from the Blair Witch Project." That really tells you all you need to know about this story.

It takes Dean a while to catch on to what's happening. He likes to think he's pretty sharp, that he knows how to figure out a situation even if it's not obvious, but this one throws him for a loop.

Understandably, the love letter's the thing that tips the scales from _Is what I think is happening actually happening?_ to _Oh, shit, this is definitely happening_.

"For you," Seth says. Grunts, is more like it. He's never been one for early mornings, and the knock on the door had interrupted their breakfast before he could get his coffee down.

Dean frowns, exchanging a glance with Roman. "At the door?" he asks, suspicious. They don't exactly give out their room number to just anyone, with how many enemies they have on the roster.

"Nah." As he sits, Seth tosses a neatly folded sheet of paper onto the table. He pauses to gulp down a few swallows from his cup, and sighs happily, his eyes already more alert. "Nobody there. Just that, and it had your name on it."

Well, that's weird. They don't talk to people, not even people they tag with, really. A quick meetup before the match is usually enough to figure out their strategy, and connections are dangerous in this business. You're just asking to be betrayed if you don't entirely trust the people you surround yourself with.

He looks to Roman, who shrugs, before he slips his finger underneath the flap of the paper to open it.

The page is filled completely from top to bottom with a spindly, looping handwriting that forms words across the page like a spiderweb forms in a doorway. On the first line, it says, _Good morning, beautiful!_.

Oh, jesus.

He knows who it's from, now.

"It's Wyatt," he mutters, and he kicks out under the table at Seth when he snorts laughter.

Ever since they tagged with the Wyatts on Raw, Bray Wyatt's been hanging around them more. Not for any particular reason, as far as Dean can tell. Just to be a nuisance.

Okay, so, once, he'd come up with a pretty good idea for a move combination to use against the Rhodes brothers. But that's it. He was only useful that one time. And Dean still doesn't know why he'd been helpful even that one time. This is the WWE. You can't trust other teams when you have a team of your own.

And he's offputting. Dean doesn't admit weakness, but it throws him when he looks around to see where Wyatt's gone and he's just looking straight at Dean from the corner of the room with a weird smile on his face.

He never calls Dean by his name, either, which was the giveaway in the letter. Dean's nearly punched him several times, when Wyatt's called him 'darling' or 'beautiful' or, once or twice, 'angel'. It's mortifying.

Seth and Roman think it's hilarious.

And then there had been the time when Dean had just been trying to enjoy a bottle of water after his match and Wyatt had wandered up to him like a hobo off the street, laughed, and said, "His Son has returned, and you are brighter and more beautiful than you ever were."

Before he just wandered off again in the other direction. Like that's completely normal. Like he talks that way to everyone.

He does talk that way to everyone. It's still creepy.

Dean had stared after him, flummoxed, until Seth cleared his throat and asked in a mutter, "Does he think you're Jesus?"

"I think he thinks I'm Jesus," Dean had responded. Kind of a compliment, in a weird, disturbing way.

The letter is new, though. Part of Dean wonders if he should've known just from the handwriting. It's very like Wyatt, in how at points it seems to wander off in trails of incoherency before returning to the point.

Dean isn't sure if he really wants to read this or not. He refolds it and hands it to Roman.

"Hey, man, do me a favor," he says, going back to his toast. "Read like the first paragraph or so of that and let me know if it's a love letter."

Roman's eyebrows go way up but his eyes dutifully scan the writing on the paper, growing wider as they go.

He coughs. "Yeah, yeah, that qualifies as a love letter, I think." He sets the letter down like it's a bomb about to go off, and looks like he'd really like to go wash his hands.

"I don't wanna know," Dean says. He does kind of want to know, but Roman's face says a lot. Seth's already snatched up the letter anyway, without asking, because he's an asshole.

His eyebrows do the same thing as Roman's. "Wow. How flexible does he think you are?" he asks, curious. He peers over the letter and gives Dean an up-and-down look that leaves him feeling like he's wearing far less clothing than he actually is.

"He basically made you a cassette tape of eighties ballads." Roman sounds disgusted and amused at the same time. "It's... cute."

"Very cute." Seth's an asshole. Seth is such an asshole. "When's the wedding?"

"Shut up," is Dean's response.

"Who's gonna be best man?" Seth asks next. Dean wonders how upset Roman would be if he just murdered their best friend. "Can I call it? Oh." He's read farther than Roman, his eyes about halfway down the page. "You give him butterflies, isn't that sweet?"

"Best man's not gonna be you. Dick," Dean grumbles into his eggs. Seth's already finished his cereal, leaving him free to read the entire letter, smiling the entire time.

"This is beautiful." Seth waves the paper at him. "No, seriously," he adds when Dean just narrows his eyes at him. "The man's got a way with words. It took him this whole page to basically say he'd really like to suck your cock."

Dean doesn't say anything, just narrows his eyes even more. Seth laughs and slides the letter back across the table.

"We've got a match tonight," Roman says. Dean likes Roman. The subject change isn't subtle but they both know that tone in Roman's voice means it's time to get down to business. "Nothing new, but we should prepare."

The arena that night is one they've been to before, and while Roman and Seth are camping out in their locker room, Dean takes a breather. He keeps mainly to the shadows, knowing the black of his ring gear will help to hide him better than anything else. He doesn't have a set path in mind, but he knows where he's going.

Once he's reached the part of the arena without crew milling around or wrestlers trying to get a moment of peace before the show, he knows he's where he needs to be. He leans against a box and waits.

It's not long before a voice from behind him says, gleefully, "Did you get my letter, darlin'?"

"Don't call me that," Dean grunts. He doesn't even bother to turn around, just waits until the man's garish shirt enters his line of vision. Hideous. Dean sticks to black with black. Simple, easy, doesn't hurt anyone's eyes.

Wyatt laughs, a rise and fall of pitch more like a cackle than anything else. "Why, but you are a darlin', aren't you? Darlin' dearest mine."

Dean decides to pay as little attention to him as he can, instead pulling the folded letter from his pocket. Crumpled and creased, Wyatt's eyes lock on it, gleaming and delighted.

"You did get it!" He looks sincerely overjoyed.

"Yup." Dean chews his gum once, twice, deliberately focusing on the motion of it, the way it feels in his mouth.

He doesn't know much about Bray Wyatt. The man's a lunatic, obviously, but he's also one of the smartest people in this business as far as Dean can tell. He knows how to play people, manipulate them, frighten them. Dean admires that in a person. Wyatt's lackeys are what he expects in the WWE -- thugs, more or less, not a brain between the pair of them, using brute force to win.

Dean's never been able to do that. He's not the strongest guy, or the biggest, but he is the smartest. People who use their minds to win matches, that's what he likes. It's why he aligned himself with Roman and Seth. Seth's nearly as sadistic as Dean is, when it comes down to it, just hides it better. And Roman... Roman's brain doesn't work like theirs, exactly. He knows when to shut it off and breathe. He helps Dean and Seth breathe, sometimes.

Dean has to wonder if Bray Wyatt has ever taken a breath in his life.

“You talk a lot of shit,” he says decisively. Bray Wyatt’s not the only person who can use words to get people to think things. “How do I know you’re not just talking shit to me?”

To his credit, Wyatt doesn’t fake offense. Dean would have left right then. He gets the feeling that for all his riddles, Bray Wyatt appreciates a man who doesn’t talk around his point. Wyatt just laughs again, that not-quite-cackle, like walking on the glass from a broken window.

“Darlin’,” says Wyatt, drawling the word out like the southern gentleman he isn’t, “just ‘cause you’ve got a pretty face don’t mean you’ll fall for pretty words.”

Dean tilts his head. He can feel the scowl on his own face, and he has no doubt Wyatt can see it, but the man just smiles more widely.

“Don’t call me that,” he repeats. “What d’you want, anyway? Why me?”

Wyatt spreads his arms, like a man about to either give a hug or be crucified. “You’re fascinating,” says Wyatt, all breathless wonder. “You dance with devils.”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t fall for pretty words.” Dean isn’t sure what to take from what Wyatt’s saying. “Don’t talk in circles at me if you want me to listen to you.”

Bowing his head, Wyatt drops his arms. “You’re not one to be preached to, and yet I can’t help but try. Others, they don’t listen, but you… You never stop.”

“Talk to me like a human being,” Dean replies, biting out the words, the muscles in his arms tight because he’s been clenching his fists for the past five minutes. “I don’t wanna hear that I listen well, or that you think I’m _pretty_. I want to know what you want.”

Wyatt’s hand is on his face all of a sudden, rough calluses against Dean’s jaw, and he’s not smiling, he’s not laughing. His eyes still gleam, and in the harsh fluorescents, they’re so dark that they look almost black.

“I want you to listen well,” Wyatt says, his thumb touching to the corner of Dean’s mouth, “when I tell you you’re pretty.”

Dean doesn’t move. He doesn’t step back, and he doesn’t throw a punch; he barely breathes in and out. Wyatt smiles again but this one is different. It looks, Dean thinks nonsensically, as though it would taste like stars dipped in cyanide. Bright and deadly.

Wyatt takes his hand, his thumb running over Dean’s knuckles. They’re bruised and knobbly, and Wyatt kisses the back of them like he’s asking Dean to dance.

He remembers what Wyatt said, about how Dean dances with devils. He thinks maybe he knows which devil Wyatt wants him to dance with.

“Have a nice match, darlin’,” Wyatt says, and Dean can’t muster up the energy to tell him to shove his nicknames where the sun don’t shine. “I’ll be watchin’.”

He gives Dean another one of those cyanide smiles, and then fades into the shadows. It’s a total cliché, and Dean swears there weren’t any shadows in this hallway a second ago, but it’s what happens.

Their match does go well, but it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with whether or not Bray Wyatt is watching.

“By the way, where’d you go before the show?” Seth asks him on the drive back to the hotel, twisted around in the passenger seat to look back at Dean while Roman drives. “I couldn’t find you, wanted to talk strategy.”

“Giving Wyatt a visit,” Dean responds even though he knows it’s inviting only misery. Sure enough, Seth’s face lights up.

“Sure you weren’t givin’ him something else?” Seth snickers at his own joke. Idiot.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I gave him a handy in the bathroom,” he says. Deadpan. Seth knows him too well, though, and he just laughs harder.

“What happened?” Roman cuts through, a smile on his face as he shakes his head. Roman’s too good for the pair of them, really, and Dean worries sometimes that he’ll figure that out. “You didn’t say anything.”

“’Cause nothing happened.” Dean shrugs. “He’s a fuckin’ weirdo. Said I dance with devils.” He doesn’t mention the kiss to his hand.

“I’ve never seen you dance with anybody.” Seth gives him a measuring look. “I don’t think you dance.”

“I like how that’s the weird thing to you,” replies Dean. “And not the part where it’s with _devils_.”

Seth waves a hand. “It’s Bray Wyatt. That’s just how he talks.”

“Mm.” Dean looks out the window. It’s dark out, and all he sees is his reflection in the glass. “He said I wouldn’t fall for pretty words.”

He’s not looking, but he can tell that Roman’s got eyes on him in the rearview, and out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he can see Seth squinting at him.

“You’re… into him,” says Seth, and Dean’s head snaps back to look at him so fast he thinks his neck cracks. “Like, holy shit, you totally are.”

"What are you talking about." It's not even a question, just a statement that's filled with as much disbelief as Dean can muster, which is quite a bit. "You've lost your mind."

"Hey, I've known you for years, Ambrose, and you've got the same look on your face you did when you were obsessed with William Regal," Seth tosses at him.

Dean snorts, the back of his mind buzzing like a nest of hornets. "I nearly beat William Regal to death while he bled all over the ring," he replies. "I wasn't _into_ him."

He's pretty sure Roman makes a skeptical noise from the driver's seat. Prick.

"You wanted to get into his head," says Seth, so twisted around in his seat that his back's to the windshield and he's got his arms around the headrest. "I know you, man. I _know_ you. When you can't figure people out, you get weird about them."

"I am not weird about Bray Wyatt. Shut up," Dean demands. The car rolls to a stop in a parking space and Dean shoves himself out the door, hitching his bag up his shoulder. He reminds himself to breathe. _You're being too defensive, Ambrose. Seth's not your enemy. Seth is your friend. Seth is your friend. Seth is your friend._

Seth grabs his arm, and Dean clenches his fist but doesn't throw a punch because Seth is his friend.

“It’s cute,” Seth says. He curls his fingers around Dean’s bicep, digging in just a little, and it clears Dean’s head. He forgets sometimes that Seth does know him as well as he does, and he knows how far he can push Dean before he has to drop a subject. “Let me know when you plan to wed in unholy matrimony.”

“Idiot,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. He sets his hand on top of Seth’s, a silent _thanks_ , and Seth lets go. “Swear to god, I don’t understand half the shit you say.”

“That explains why you’re so obsessed with me,” Seth shoots back. Dean does hit him that time.

The thing is – the _fucking_ thing is, Seth’s not wrong. The reason he’d antagonized William Regal for so long _was_ because he wanted to understand the man, and the reason he’d had a million matches with Seth _was_ because he couldn’t quite figure him out. Seth’s weird in more than one way and Dean had wanted to see if he could bring out the parts of Seth that reminded him of himself.

That’s years ago, though, and he knows now that Seth’s mostly just a bratty, mouthy little fuck who talks too much about shit he doesn’t understand and keeps the other layers of himself hidden until he feels like letting them show.

He’s complicated. Dean likes complicated. Bray Wyatt is the most complicated person he’s ever met.

But he’s not _into_ him. He just admires the guy’s style, how dedicated he is to this act he’s putting on. Because Dean’s sure it’s an act. Wyatt’s too intelligent, too wily for it not to be. Dean just wants to know if he can be the one to get the guy to drop it.

He wonders what it would take. He’s good, Wyatt, but there have to be cracks in his armor somewhere. Dean just has to find them, and he’s good at that. He’s _good_ at figuring people out, which is why it’s so frustrating when he comes across a person he can’t.

The next night is SmackDown, and Dean’s more than half-expecting it when Bray Wyatt seeks him out, but he’s definitely not expecting the man to just knock on their door.

“Uh,” he hears as Roman enters the door. Dean turns around, pulling his black shirt down over his head, and Wyatt’s eyes flick noticeably up to look him in the eye instead of wherever he’d been looking before. “Ambrose, it’s for you,” Roman says belatedly, looking like he’s not sure whether he wants to let the man in.

“What do you want?” Dean asks, grabbing his wrist tape. Something tells him Wyatt’s not a man who likes to be dismissed, so he starts winding the tape around his hands, slow, steady. Wyatt’s eyes never leave his face.

“I wondered if I might bend your ear a minute.” Wyatt’s voice is steady, almost polite. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Seth practically shoves him forward. “We’re not using him, you can have him until the show starts,” he says. One of these days, Dean is going to kill him for real.

“Sure,” he says shortly, continuing to wrap his wrist. He bends it as far as he can and then back, to give it some wear. Wyatt’s eyes smile at him as they exit to the hallway, dingy and dark because they don’t have a locker room as much as they have a room that they commandeer until they’re needed for the show. They don’t need a fancy TV, they don’t need to be in the middle of everyone else. When they need to be, they will be.

“What do you want?” he repeats once the door closes behind them. “Two nights in a row and you’re not tired of me yet?”

He’s taken aback when Wyatt just looks at him and says, an almost offended look on his face, “Never, darlin’.”

There’s a few seconds where Dean doesn’t know how to respond, and then he just clears his throat. “Well, what did you want?”

“I just wanted to wish you luck in your match tonight,” Wyatt says, tipping his hat like he’s about to ask Dean to prom. In the 1950s. In Georgia. “And, if I’m an honest man, I do like seeing you up close when I can.”

“And why is that?” Dean asks. His lips are starting to twitch a little, and he’s not sure if he wants to smile or scowl. In the end, he does neither. “Because you think I’m pretty?”

“You _have_ been listening.” Wyatt does a ridiculous bounce on the balls of his feet. “I knew I could get through to you, beautiful.”

“Stop, stop, stop,” says Dean, automatically pushing at Wyatt’s shoulder before he remembers who he’s talking to. His hand’s still just resting there against Wyatt’s shoulder, and he snatches it back in what’s not the smoothest motion he’s ever made. “I, uh, I need to finish getting my tape on.”

“I could help with that,” Wyatt offers, almost before Dean is done speaking. He makes to take a step forward, then moves his foot back, his hands splayed palm up. “If you wanted.”

Dean doesn’t know if he does want, but he’s no longer so sure that he doesn’t. “… Okay,” he decides. Wyatt looks surprised before he covers up the look on his face with something less incriminating, taking the tape from Dean’s hands.

Wyatt’s fingers are gentle as he takes one of Dean’s hands, like Dean is made of something breakable. To his credit, he seems to know what he’s doing, matching this hand to the one Dean’s already done, the tape tight enough to do its job but not so tight it’s cutting off his circulation. When he’s done, Wyatt takes both of Dean’s hands and kisses the back of each, and Dean lets him.

“What game are you playing?” Dean asks straight out, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing through them again. Maybe if he asks, he’ll get a straight answer.

He forgot, though, that he’s talking to Bray Wyatt.

“We’re all just pieces on the board, pretty,” Wyatt says. He’s got half a smile on his face. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

“Why don’t you tell me what questions I should be asking, then?”

Dean’s positive he isn’t going to get a straight answer this time. Wyatt takes a step closer, and if it’s intimidation, it won’t work. Dean doesn’t move back even though Wyatt is in his space so much that Dean’s nearly vibrating with it, and when Wyatt cups Dean’s face with his hands and presses a kiss to his temple, it’s not as much a surprise as it is a revelation.

“You’ll find them in your own time,” Wyatt whispers to him. “You’ll find me.”

It’s creepy and over the top and definitely doesn’t answer his question, and Dean is kind of into Bray Wyatt.

“I guess I will,” he says. Wyatt’s hands are still on his face, and a calloused thumb touches to his bottom lip before Wyatt steps back.

“Stay gorgeous, darlin’.” Wyatt tips his hat again before he turns down the hallway, whistling a jaunty tune.

When Dean walks back into their non-locker room, Seth takes one look at him and starts laughing, curling in on himself.

“Man,” he says, “seriously, when’s the wedding?”

Dean throws the wrist tape at him.

It’s weird to not see Wyatt for a week, and Dean hates that he’s had that thought almost before he has it. He realizes while they’re on the way to the arena for Raw that he’s all keyed up, anticipation and something else he doesn’t know how to name.

“What’s wrong?” Roman asks. This time it’s Seth who’s driving, and Roman keeps his seatbelt on unlike some other maniacs Dean could name. “You’re twitchy today.”

“He’s probably looking forward to seeing his boyfriend.” Seth’s entirely unwanted opinion fills the car. Roman sets a hand on Seth’s leg and squeezes, silently, and Seth shuts his mouth.

“On edge tonight,” Dean replies to Roman, ignoring Seth’s words. “Might take a walk before the show to clear my head.”

“Do that,” Roman instructs. Dean’s noticed that more often, Roman giving instructions instead of suggestions. It suits him, the leadership role. It used to suit Dean more, but he doesn’t think that’s true anymore. Sometimes, now, he’s finding it more important to listen than to be heard.

It’s cold, the arena, and his ring gear doesn’t have sleeves, but Dean likes the chill. It gives him clarity, bracing, solid. And this time, he has a destination.

He knows he’s arrived at the right door when he gets there, all too similar to theirs. He knocks once, twice, three times, and Luke Harper opens the door.

The man tilts his head, looking at Dean, waiting. Wyatt’s taught them well, or – done whatever he does to people well, with them.

“I need to speak with your boss,” Dean says, keeping eye contact. “Get him for me.”

There’s another beat of silence while Harper digests that information and then he nods, quickly, ducking back into the room. He doesn’t close the door completely, so Dean can hear his muffled voice when he speaks.

“Dean Ambrose is at the door for you,” Harper says, reverent subservience.

Wyatt’s voice in response, stupidly, makes a warm feeling bloom in Dean’s chest. “Does he look upset?” he demands to know.

There’s another pause. Dean’s not sure if Harper’s just got problems or if he just knows that he needs to phrase his responses correctly when Wyatt’s talking to him. “No,” he says slowly, “Impatient. Distracted.”

Good catches, both of those. Dean’s vaguely impressed.

There’s the sound of a chair creaking as Dean assumes Wyatt stands, and then the man himself appears at the door. He looks surprised, actually, and Dean likes it. It makes him feel like he has some sort of special power, to be able to surprise Bray Wyatt.

“Hey,” Dean says, bizarrely very aware of how he’s holding his arms. “Got a minute?”

Wyatt’s face breaks into a smile. “A million for you, you know that.” He slips out into the hallway with Dean, closing the door behind him. Dean isn’t upset not to be invited in. He’s got no idea what the Wyatt family’s locker room looks like, and he doesn’t really want to know. “How can I help you today?”

Dean’s not even sure why he’s here. He’d thought that he was walking aimlessly, but now he’s here, and Wyatt’s here, and Dean doesn’t want to think that means something.

“I’m not sure,” he says finally, drawing the words out. “I didn’t even know I was coming here until I was knocking on the door.”

Wyatt’s face lights up. “You were drawn to me,” he breathes.

“None of that creepy shit, Wyatt,” Dean commands, glaring at him. “Use your normal people voice.”

Wyatt calms down a little, but the smile still plays on his lips. “Bray,” he suggests. “Seems awful strange for you to use my surname when our energies are so intertwined.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” He shakes his head. Why did he come here? Bobbing his head at the door, he coughs. “What’s the deal with them, anyway?” he asks, unsure what else to say.

“How do you mean?” Wyatt replies, his expression quizzical. “They are my brothers, my family.” He tips his head toward Dean. “Much as you have your own brothers.”

Dean’s brow pulls down before he can stop it, before he’s aware that’s what’s going to happen. Wyatt – Bray, he guesses – hums quietly.

“Ah, and now we come to the reason you’re here,” he says. “Why you chose to seek me out.”

“I didn’t choose anything,” Dean grumbles. 

“Don’t be like that,” Bray coaxes. “You’re here for a reason, whether you would like to speak or be spoken to. Which is it?”

“Both. Neither.” Dean heaves a sigh.

“Are you and your boys having problems?” asks Bray, either hazarding a guess or using his creepy ability to read Dean better than people who have known him his whole life.

“No,” Dean says. They’re not. They’re not having any problems at all, except… “You and yours work differently from me and mine. There’s no leader in the Shield. We’re a team.”

Bray looks at him, not saying anything. There’s still a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s nothing,” Dean insists. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m just used to it being one way, I guess, and now it’s kind of a different way. But the new way isn’t bad.”

“Change can be hard,” Bray says, one knuckle nudging the brim of his hat up so that his eyes are visible. “It can rankle. When you’re used to being revered and find yourself reverent.”

Dean frowns, shaking his head as he looks back up. “I’m gonna figure out how you do that,” he murmurs, but it comes out less annoyed than he means it to and more fond, instead.

Bray taps his temple and smiles at Dean, not one of his toothy grins, but a normal, human smile. “I know you,” he says, simply. “As well as the moon knows the sun.”

“Is that why you sometimes see the moon in the daytime?” Dean is weirdly charmed by the metaphor. “You following me around even when you’re not supposed to be?”

“I just can’t stay away, darlin’.” Bray looks delighted, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Are you feeling better?”

He is, damn it, and he wishes he wasn’t. He doesn’t want to come talk to Bray Wyatt every time he has a problem. He wants to deal with it himself.

Honestly, it was barely a problem. So Roman’s becoming a leader. Dean doesn’t care. Roman’s suited to it, and really, Dean probably shouldn’t be in charge of a group of people. He’s not a leader. He’s not a follower, either, but he’s definitely not a leader. He doesn’t know what he is, most of the time.

He wonders if Bray Wyatt has that issue. Probably not.

“I’m good. I’ll… see you later?” Dean guesses. He’s not going to seek Bray out again, not tonight, but that doesn’t mean they won’t end up in the same place. It seems to be kind of inevitable, lately.

“Perhaps in your dreams,” Bray says smoothly, bowing slightly to kiss the backs of Dean’s knuckles again. Corny, definitely, and weird, and Dean is smiling anyway.

“Very charming,” he says. He feels like there’s more to say, hanging there in the air between them, but he can’t think of anything to say, so in the end he just turns and walks away. He can feel Bray’s eyes on his back until he turns the corner.

Even though he doesn’t feel stretched as thin as he did before his visit with Bray, he now feels a little like his whole body is full of electricity. Not in a bad way. Just like if somebody touched him, they might get a static shock from his skin.

Pretty shitty superpower. He kinda likes it.

“You look better,” Roman observes, lacing his boots as Dean pushes open the door to their locker room. It’s weird, but knowing Roman’s paying attention closely enough to gauge Dean’s moods, knowing that Roman can see when Seth needs to calm down or when they all need to take a few minutes to themselves, knowing that Roman _cares_ enough to notice all of those things… It’s weird. Dean’s not really used to people giving a shit about him.

And maybe Roman wants to be the leader of the Shield. Maybe that’s what he wants, is to be the leader, in charge, and maybe that’s why he’s doing all of it, but he’s doing a better job of it than Dean ever could, and if that’s what he wants, then fuck it. He can have it. Dean never wanted it in the first place.

“C’mere,” says Dean abruptly, and Roman looks wary, surprised. “Seriously, just c’mere a sec,” he insists.

“Why?” Roman asks, but he double-knots his bootlace and drops his foot to the floor, taking the two steps to Dean. “You hit me I’m gonna be pissed off,” he warns, but it’s good-natured. He doesn’t actually think Dean is going to hit him. Because he trusts Dean. He trusts him.

“I’m not gonna hit you, idiot,” Dean mutters, and he sighs, vacillating in his head before he hooks his arm around Roman’s neck in what’s definitely a hug.

This isn’t a post-match celebration. Nobody’s won any titles. Roman is holding himself very still, and then he sets his hands at Dean’s waist, carefully, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

“You’re doin’ real well,” Dean mutters. “I just thought you should know that, uh, you’re – everything’s cool. And I’m, you know, you’re good. You’re really good.”

“Uh,” says Roman. And no wonder, because Dean sounds like a fucking idiot. How is it that he can get on that microphone every week and kill but talking to _Roman_ is hard?

“You’ve just been doing good lately,” Dean says. He wants Roman to understand. “Really. Seriously. I just wanted you to know, you’re good. We’re good.”

“Were we not good?” Roman asks, but he sounds less confused, and his hands slide around until they’re really, full-on hugging in the middle of the locker room. Roman’s chin is on his shoulder. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome.” Dean clears his throat, giving Roman a pat on the back and then coughing and dropping his arm, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Yeah.”

Roman looks amused, and he shakes his head, ruffling Dean’s hair. “Guess your walk really helped you figure out some stuff, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Dean mumbles. If anything, he just has more questions now, like how Bray Wyatt knows exactly what to say to him, and whether Roman has always looked this at-home in himself or if it’s just because he’s finally fitting into where he’s supposed to be.

“Seth went to look at the match listing, see if we’ve got one tonight or if we’re gonna have to find trouble to get into. I think I’m gonna get a water, you want one?” Roman offers.

“Yeah, thanks, man.” Dean gives him half of a smile. He feels warm and electric and alive. He wonders if Roman could feel it when they were touching.

Roman smiles back at him before he leaves the room, with a look over his shoulder and his face edged with bemusement. Dean supposes he could’ve blamed the whole thing on wanting to keep Roman on his toes, but that’s not true. He just wanted Roman to know he’s doing a good job, whether he’s easing into being the leader or not.

Dean sits down heavily. He still needs to get taped up, but at least his gear’s on, and he kind of just wants to sit here for a minute alone and think. His thoughts are whirling and his veins are filled with lightning instead of blood and he just wants to figure out when everything got so complicated and simple at the same time.

The show goes fine. He doesn’t zap anybody with his new electrohands or spontaneously hug any of their opponents. It’s normal and Dean can’t figure out why he’s so certain that it’s not supposed to be. Nothing’s changed, but has nothing changed? It scratches at Dean’s brain. He’s almost worried to tag in and out just in case he electrocutes Seth or Roman, before he remembers that it’s all in his head.

“You okay?” Seth asks once they get to the back. They won, of course, because they’re the Shield and that’s what they do. Seth’s hand on Dean’s shoulder is gripping tightly, keeping him there. Because Seth knows him, and Seth knows how he works. Dean’s stomach relaxes a little, his muscles losing some of their tension.

“Yeah, good,” he answers, and because he can, because it’s close enough to their win that he can blame it on the euphoric adrenaline from that, he wraps his arm around Seth’s back and tucks his face against Seth’s neck and counts, one, two, three, four, five before he lets go.

“Good.” Seth squeezes Dean’s shoulder again and then lets it go, giving Dean’s back a rub before he bops into the locker room, all bouncy energy. Dean feels some of it like a secondhand high, unable to keep himself from smiling as he watches Seth be Seth.

Roman’s already inside, watching Seth with the same affection Dean is, undoing the fastenings of his vest. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks Dean in an undertone while Seth fumbles with his own vest. Fidgety things; Dean’s never regretted getting rid of his. “Couple times I didn’t think you were gonna make the tag.”

He’s watching Dean intently, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. If he says ‘I didn’t want to electrocute you’ Roman’s going to think he’s fucking psychotic. Of course, most people think he’s fucking psychotic, so maybe that’s not a big issue.

“Feel weird today,” he settles on. But that’s not it, not all of it anyway. He’d felt weird when he got here, then he went to see Bray – and when did he become Bray instead of Wyatt? – and he felt sort of better, weird in a different way than he had. He doesn’t know how to explain it other than, “Weird,” he says again.

“This have anything to do with you being extra clingy when you got back from talking to Bray Wyatt?” Roman says, his voice even as anything. He shrugs when Dean gives him a surprised look. “You get this look on your face when you talk to him.”

Dean’s real glad Seth’s still busy with his vest, because he’d have a field day with that one. He frowns, and, carefully, sets a hand on Roman’s shoulder, bare now with his vest dropped onto the chair. He doesn’t electrocute him. All of a sudden, it seems ridiculous that he’d ever thought he might.

Roman holds still, maybe because he knows this is just one of Dean’s Weird Things, maybe for some other reason. But he holds still, and Dean breathes in, then breathes out all of the lightning. He’s surprised it doesn’t burn his mouth.

“Felt like I had lightning in my blood,” he says, finally. It’s Roman, after all, and even if Roman doesn’t understand, he’ll listen. “Electricity.”

Roman hums thoughtfully, and he doesn’t laugh. Dean wonders a lot of the time if it’s possible for him to really love someone, after everything, after his life, but then sometimes there’s Roman. There’s Roman and there’s Seth and it’s possible, it has to be, because what else is the warmhappysafe feeling in the pit of his stomach?

“In a good way or a bad way?” Roman asks, completely seriously.

“Good, I think,” Dean says, pausing before he continues with, “I just didn’t want to electrocute you.”

Roman sets his own hand over Dean’s, and he smiles at him. “You didn’t. We’re both fine.” He slides a glance Seth’s way, and snorts. “At least, as fine as Seth ever gets.”

“Heard that,” Seth mutters petulantly. Whatever moment Dean and Roman had been having is broken, and Dean laughs, dropping his hand from Roman’s shoulder as he notices that Seth’s only now gotten his vest off.

“Little trouble?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He’s so fucking glad he doesn’t wear that thing anymore.

“What’d you call me?” Seth says jokingly in response, yanking the shirt he wears under his vest off and balling it up to throw at Dean.

Dean knows, already, even as he jokes around with Seth and Roman and gets changed into street clothes, that he needs to see Bray again. And that makes him sound like Dean’s fucking drug dealer, or something, but it’s not that. He just knows, somehow, that that’s what he needs.

The problem is that he has no idea where Bray Wyatt goes after the show. He doesn’t even know how he found the guy when he got here, but he really doesn’t know how to find him once the show’s over. They’re going to head back to the hotel, but does Bray stay at the hotel with the rest of them? He’s shoved notes under their door, sure, but does that mean he has a room?

Even if he did, it’s not like Dean could find out which one it was. And he’s not going to just go up and down the hallways knocking on doors until he finds the right one. He’s not that much of a fucking loser.

To be honest, he’s half expecting it when he opens the door to leave the locker room and steps on a piece of paper. When he picks it up, it reads, in familiar spindly loops, _Room 320 – knock three times_.

“That from him?” Roman asks, nodding toward the note when Dean shoves it in his pocket. He doesn’t say a name, but they both know who he’s talking about.

“Yeah,” Dean replies. “Wants me to drop by his room later.”

Roman looks like he’d like to say something else, but in the end, he just shrugs and tosses the keys to Dean. “Your turn to drive.”

When they get back to the hotel, Seth’s nearly burned out of his bouncy excited phase of post-match celebration and is firmly in his half-dead tired as hell phase, dropping onto the bed in his room and groaning into the pillow. His room’s connected to Dean and Roman’s by a door, so Dean closes it behind him with a quiet click.

“You gonna go see him now?” Roman asks from his bed, splayed across it like a giant cat. He shoves his hair back out of his face. “Or wait?”

Dean’s itching to go now, but would that be too pushy? Clingy, as Roman had put it earlier? Should he wait?

While he’s deliberating, Roman huffs a laugh, rolling off the bed to his feet in a smooth movement. He pats Dean’s shoulder as he walks past him. “I’m gonna shower. Take a keycard before you go in case you get back late.”

“Thanks, _mom_ ,” Dean grumbles, but the familiar warmhappysafe blooms again in his stomach. It’s exhausting, caring about people and having them care about you in return.

He doesn’t pass anybody in the hallway, on his way to the elevator. Bray’s on the third floor, they’re on the second, so he leans back against the railing and takes a breath in and then out as the elevator moves. What is he doing? What’s gotten into him?

He keeps his head down when the elevator stops, and takes another breath. It’s fine, he tells himself firmly as the door opens. It’s totally fine.

This hallway’s deserted too, except for AJ Lee getting ice down at the other end. She looks at him cautiously, but he doesn’t have any issues with her, so he just nods at her and looks at the numbers on the doors until he finds the one he’s looking for. 320. He knocks three times.

A second after the third knock, the door opens. Dean wonders if Bray was just waiting there for him to knock. He’s smiling, and not wearing his hat. For some reason, those two things are the first things Dean notices.

“Hi,” Dean says, his hands stuffed into his pockets. What is it about this guy that makes him feel so unsure of himself? He used to be so good at faking confidence even if he didn’t feel it.

“Evening,” Bray greets. “Did you like my present?”

Some things start to make a little more sense. “Present?” Dean asks, stepping into the room when Bray stands back.

Bray nods, that smile still on his face as he motions for Dean to hold out his hand. He does, confused, and Bray touches two fingers to the inside of his wrist.

It’s like fucking sparks exploding in his head, like he is a storm, like he’s clouds and thunder and rain and more than anything he’s lightning, he’s energy and electricity and movement and feeling and sound and _electricity_ – 

He’s just Dean, and Bray’s not touching him anymore, just hiccupping another laugh and looking at Dean hopefully.

“Are you the actual fucking devil, man?” Dean asks. He’s out of breath. He’s also kind of hard, but he’s trying to ignore that.

“Would you dance with me, if I was?” Bray returns, his thumb stroking lightly over Dean’s pulse. Dean should be scared, or nervous, but mostly he’s just breathless and hard. He’s bad at being what he should be.

“Maybe I would,” he murmurs, looking away. He clears his throat. “That why you invited me here? To dance?”

Bray laughs, a rich, low sound. “No,” he says. “I wanted to see if you liked your present. I wanted to see if you and your boys are all right.” He pauses. “I wanted you with me,” he says, and then he gestures toward a chair that’s sitting next to the window. “Please. Sit.”

Dean does, settling in the chair and looking out the window over the city. He can’t keep track from day to day what city they’re in. They’ve started addressing them by the weather. He’ll ask Seth where they are, and Seth will reply, “Hot,” or, “Raining.”

“Oklahoma,” Bray murmurs beside him, leaning against the wall.

He doesn’t even ask, just shakes his head and keeps looking out the window.

“I kept thinking I was gonna electrocute Roman and Seth during our match,” Dean says, straightforward. “Thought I’d tag out and hurt them.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Bray assures him. “It only makes you feel… more,” he says after a moment of deliberation.

“Thanks, I guess. Super creepy, but thanks.” Dean looks back at Bray, whose eyes glint in the light from the streetlamps outside the window. “Got any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“Don’t have any sleeves,” Bray says mildly, and while it’s true (he doesn’t have one of his garish Hawaiian shirts on, just a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off) Dean finds it funnier than it should be, and he laughs into his hand. Bray looks pleased.

“What do you do when you’re not giving people magic blood and beating up Daniel Bryan?” he asks. He’s curious.

Bray sits on the flat seat jutting out from the window before he answers. “Think about you,” he says. Dean rolls his eyes. “Talk to Abigail. Breathe.”

“Abigail?” Dean asks, trying to seem uninterested. Truth is, nobody knows who Sister Abigail is, just that she’s the reason that Bray does a lot of the things he does.

He smiles at Dean, dipping his head in a nod. “Abigail,” he says, and even though his voice is as light and unaffected as it usually is, there’s something underneath it that warns Dean away from this topic. He’s never really been a smart guy.

“Anybody I know?” he asks instead of changing the subject.

“She will reveal herself when she desires to be known,” Bray replies, and Dean shivers, suddenly cold.

“All right, I can take a hint,” he mutters. “No more questions about Abigail.”

“It is not my place,” says Bray, with something of an apology in his voice.

“Why Daniel Bryan?” Dean says suddenly. “Is it okay for me to ask that? Why him, specifically?”

Bray is silent for so long that Dean almost gives up on that, too. “He’s special,” Bray says, finally. “He has a good soul. Good souls look better when they’re tarnished.”

“What’s my soul look like?” Dean asks, half-joking, afraid of the answer.

But Bray just looks him head-on and says, “Beautiful,” his words ringing painfully sincere. “It shines so brightly that it puts the stars to shame.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, and it hurts to get the words past the sudden lump in his throat. “That so?”

“I told you,” Bray says, tilting his head. “You are the sun. You shine brighter than everything. You think, you believe yourself to be a black hole but you’re wrong. Because I can see into the deepest darkest parts of you, and even those are filled with light.”

Dean wants him to stop talking. It’s too much. It’s too much, and he can’t handle it, so he holds up a hand, and thankfully, Bray goes quiet again, his eyes watchful but his mouth closed while Dean gathers the strands of himself and stuffs them back inside his body.

He swallows, his throat as dry as anything, and clears his throat. “You’re wrong,” he says. It sounds creaky, like an unoiled hinge. “I should leave.”

“Don’t go,” Bray says, caught between jerking to his feet and remaining seated. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not,” Dean insists. He just feels trapped, and he doesn’t like feeling trapped. He feels too big for the room or the room feels too small for him.

“Please,” Bray says. “I won’t say any more. Just stay. Please,” he says again, and Dean can hear how foreign the word is, how little he says it. How little he means it. Dean understands that. He has a hard time saying please, too.

“What do you want from me?” he demands to know, but he’s still sitting in the chair. “I don’t understand what you’re looking for. This is all I have. This is all I’ve _got_. I’m not a star, I’m not the sun, I’m just _this_. What are you looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything, darlin’,” Bray says, a hushed whisper in comparison to the way Dean’s voice keeps rising and fading. “I’ve found you. You are everything and you are all that I want. I was never asking for anything more.”

“Everybody’s looking for something.” Dean stands, but it’s not to leave. He just moves, sitting instead on the window seat next to Bray. This close it feels like he’s radiating heat, a furnace turned up as high as it goes.

“I’ve found you,” Bray says again, turning to face Dean. His expression is honest painfully so, and Dean kisses him, because he’s wanted to for two weeks and he really wants to know if he’ll be able to taste electricity on Bray’s lips. He wants to breathe it in and feel sparks in his lungs.

It’s a delicate thing, more and less than he thought it would be, Bray’s hand at his jaw and Dean feels warm all the way to his toes. At the end of it, his lips are tingling like he’s had too much to drink, and his head is buzzing. He didn’t breathe in sparks, but in some ways he feels like he knows what the air tastes like at the end of the world.

“You’ve found me,” he says. It feels right to say, like something that’s true, so he says it again. “You’ve found me.”

“Stay,” Bray invites, and Dean doesn’t know if he means that he wants Dean to stay next to him, or stay the night, but he thinks he knows the answer either way.

“Okay,” he says, and he kisses Bray again.


End file.
